


Oh, Honey

by rizahawkaye



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Funny, Jealousy, Love, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 18:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14338611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizahawkaye/pseuds/rizahawkaye
Summary: There are a lot of things Riza enjoys about being the First Lady of Amestris. The women are not one of those things.





	Oh, Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WildDaisies0216](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildDaisies0216/gifts).



> I wrote this for my dear friend Michelle. <3 It's entirely self indulgent fun, so I hope you enjoy!

Riza Hawkeye. **  
**

_The_  Riza Hawkeye.

Colonel Riza Hawkeye.

The First Lady.

Führer Mustang’s  _wife_ and most precious subordinate, Colonel Riza Hawkeye.

Riza’s heard it all. It’s come off the heels of his introductions more times than she could count, and the crowd goes off for it every time with thunderous applause and shining eyes tunneling in to focus on her. His hand is always at the small of her back by then, his fingers making lazy circles there where no one else can see. It’s his small way of tethering himself to her in those moments when they’re suddenly ascending into what feels like a dream world, some far off place they’ve seen but could never be a part of until now.

She would be lying if she said the attention didn’t leave her elated on some occasions. When she and Roy managed to spearhead a particular bill, or when Roy, her husband, the Führer of Amestris took questions about his place in the Ishvalan war and answered them with clarity, with a truthfulness the nation appreciated, she could let herself bask in this thing they’d done. Brick by brick they were clawing the oppressive military state into dust, tasting the bitter dryness of their victory on their tongues while reveling in the rubble that was turning the nation back over to the hands of its people.

Riza felt awed by Roy these days. He ruled with grace and dignity and a kindness that swelled straight from his heart and into the citizens around him, coating the wreckage of Amestris’ past in a haze of warmth and light. Riza sometimes looked out their bedroom window as the sunlight started to kiss the tops of buildings and she  _felt_  it - his heat, his passion, covering the scars of the Promised Day in an orangey hue. She returned to bed with him on those mornings to steal a few more minutes nestled into his side. He always awoke stroking her hair, his breath easing the sun into the sky.

These were things Riza loved about being Colonel Riza Hawkeye, the First Lady of Amestris.

The things she didn’t love were rooted in guilt, but also a shameful jealousy, and maybe a little pettiness too.  

 ***

“Führer Mustang,” some nameless woman gushed, and Riza relinquished her husband’s arm like the confident woman she was. She watched quietly as yet another person fawned over Roy in front of her, their hands ghosting over his arms, jingling the metals pinned to his coat. Riza resisted the urge to cock her hip and fold her arms.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” the woman went on. She ran her tongue along the body of her upper lip like it was a habit, but Riza had seen the move in other women before. She smoothed out her dress and pretended to examine her shoes while Roy made small talk with the young, flirty brunette, caging her small hand in his to thank her for attending the opening of the first Ishvalan-led school in the heart of Central. The girl talked amiably about things she very obviously didn’t understand, legislation and integration bills and the like, and when she was finished she pulled the Führer’s hand to her mouth and kissed the back of it with her full lips. She shot Riza a none-too-apologetic look as she turned on her heel, and Riza thought smugly, and rather uncharacteristically:  _That hand was up my dress not even an hour ago, honey._

“That’s the third this evening,” Riza turned her head and spoke into Roy’s ear as he found his place by her side. He tangled his fingers with hers and brought her hand to his lips, making sure he kissed each knuckle fully. There was a half a second where Riza felt the old urge to tug away from the intimacy, but she quelled it.

“I can’t help how irresistible I am,” he smiled against her skin. Riza rolled her eyes animatedly. “Before marrying you I never would have pegged you as the jealous type.”

Riza blanched. “I’m not jealous,” she said defensively. Roy set his dark eyes on her, probing her face for the truth. She set her jaw in retaliation, ever his stubborn subordinate.

“You’re free to kiss my hands all you want you know,” he said. “Among other things.”

“I’m aware,” she said, and the corners of her lips tugged treacherously upward.

But Riza endured the remainder of the evening in a quiet fire. An endless line of people found their way to the Führer and Riza was again and again meant to stand off to the side and watch people touch and fawn and drool over her husband like she hadn’t claimed his hand just a year prior. It was as though she were a decoration this night. She was being treated like a woman Roy married to secure status and it irked her.

_Rightfully so,_  she thought. Roy went on sharing his knee-weakening grin with anyone who would pay it any mind, and the longer it kept up a home on his face the hotter Riza felt. The ire started in the soles of her feet and crawled its way up through her veins and over the hills of her muscles until it burrowed into her chest and every time she opened her mouth she worried a smoke would froth from it.  _I’m not an afterthought_ , she fumed and eventually she excused herself to the hallway and Roy followed, not calling after her but twirling her around by the elbow when the heavy gym doors shut behind him. The muffled sounds of the celebration going on beyond the thick metal did a lot to lessen Riza’s frustration, but still her jealousy didn’t ebb.

“What’s going on?” he said, and his tone was a bit accusatory. It was as though he thought she were being difficult. “You’ve been difficult all night.”

_He did_  not.

“You’ve been unavailable all night,” she retorted. “I’ve been pushed aside by so many people tonight that I’ve lost count. It’s as though no one’s seeing me as your partner in this, but your… your trophy wife or something.” Even as the words left her mouth she knew they were fantastically dramatic.

Roy blinked at her, and then exploded into laughter. She felt her face get warm, and then reached up to cover his mouth as she noticed the hallway guards’ eyes skirt to him. He chuckled into her hand until her glare sobered him. “I’m sorry,” he said against her palm, and took her wrists in his hands. “Come with me.”

There were not many Ishvalan children in Central, and the size of this school reflected as such quite wonderfully. It was small, the hallways were narrow enough for small bodies and a teacher or two to navigate, and doorways hung low and arched. Roy employed Ishvalan architects for the building’s construction, and Riza could tell as much. The walls looked like stucco, the doorways were embroidered with chocolate brown wood, and the floors were a glossy red marble. A blip of awe came back for her husband as she was tugged along beside him admiring his idea come to life, but just as soon as the feeling had come it was replaced by that damned jealousy.

Those women had been awed by him too, she reminded herself, and he’d played with that.

Roy led Riza into a room at the back of the school. It was dark inside, the deep maroon curtains pulled over the large window behind a generously sized desk. He released her wrist to flirt with the stationary on the desk’s surface, and she watched him and shut the heavy door. He flicked a light on.

Riza’s breath caught. To her right was a wall of textbooks, and directly in front of her was a long rectangular desk with chairs hugging it’s edges. There were no Amestrian flags. There was no room for nationalism within these walls. She looked to him, and he was grinning.

“It looks like that first office of ours back east,” Riza said.

“This is the principal’s office,” Roy told her. He crossed the room to her, his shadow lengthening against the wall as he did so. She watched that shadow stretch and stretch against the short wall when finally it hit the ceiling, just as he’d done,  _as_  we  _have done_. But it kept going, creeping along the foundation, until she couldn’t search for it anymore and he was standing in front of her, coaxing her eyes into meeting his. “There’s a little bit of you in everything I do,” he said.

That office; the start of their joint career.

“You’re not a trophy wife and you know it,” he went on, and maybe it was the dark of the room or the way his voice dipped low but something convinced Riza to steal his hand in hers as he spoke. She placed a kiss on the back of it, right over the raised scar tissue, right where that brunette had kissed, and he fastened his fingers to her chin.

She somehow held fast to her bearings as he leaned in, his lips hovering hers. “You do look like one though,” he said, and took her bottom lip between his teeth. She sighed and, out of compulsion, immediately tried to join their lips. He let her go and pulled back so he was just out of reach, and then he returned to her. This time he stood straighter, his hand tightened over her, and he smirked.

She was wearing that dress he’d picked out. It went out from her hips in ripples of fabric that was as blue as the ocean. Small, shimmering sequin pieces decorated her midsection and breasts. When she passed under the light she looked like she were moving in deep, glittering water and people would catch their breath and look at her with gaping mouths and healthily cautious eyes. Who wanted to get caught ogling the Führer’s wife? But Riza didn’t care. The dress anchored itself to her neck and cloaked the full of her back in that deep blueness, so her one and only insecurity was kept safely hidden. Besides, no one seemed unsure of any kind of reaction from  _her_  when they all but fell to their knees and kissed her husband’s shoes.

“I don’t care about being recognized, you know,” she told him. Truly, she didn’t.

“I know that,” he said, and he was eyeing her distractedly. He took her face in both his hands. “I don’t genuinely care about recognition either. I wish I could atone quietly and out of the public eye, but alas I’m entirely too attractive for that. And so are you, Colonel.”

Riza hummed. The truth of it was that Roy was too charismatic to go about rebuilding the land he broke in any other way. Sure, he was attractive, and maybe Riza should cut his admirers some slack because of that fact, but she really doesn’t care about recognition. In actuality it bothers her to know she cares more about the way people drink her husband in while disrespecting his bodyguard and  _wife_. They could at least pretend they aren’t trying to take him to bed. They could show some restraint, maybe put their hormones to work on someone else - channel them inwardly, dilute them with ice cold water -  _something_.

“You’re funny when you’re jealous,” Roy teased, and before Riza could plead her case he was kissing her. Softly at first, almost chaste. As he went on he alternated between running his hands over the length of her arms and pulling at her loose and long hair. She wanted to grip his lapel but the thought kept rushing at her that they would have to leave this room eventually and if they emerged with crimped clothing it would be… well,  _scandalous_ , as the newspapers would say.

Still, Roy eased Riza against the intricate door and she let him. She felt a lot like a teenager as she opened her mouth to exhale against his cheek and he caught her, his tongue taking advantage of her lapse in control. Heat started to pool in her stomach, in her chest, and between her legs as he went after her feverishly, his leg pressing into the sweet spot between her thighs. She couldn’t fist his ironed suit in her hands so she settled for her wavy dress. She hiked it up on her thigh in her excitement and Roy’s hand found a happy home there on her hot skin.

Riza couldn’t help it. She started to giggle suddenly as her husband,  _Führer_  Roy Mustang, the  _infamous_  Flame Alchemist, hooked a finger into the hemline of her panties. He was close to forty years old, and here she was in her mid-thirties getting hopelessly jealous in a small school for secondary students and letting Roy, this prestigious and aptly sought after man, turn her knees to jam and make out with her in a principal’s office. Her giggles turned to full blown laughs.

“It’s not polite to laugh while I’m trying to woo you,” Roy grumbled into her jawline.

“I’ve been wooed,” she said, and righted herself. Roy watched her remove his hand and smooth her dress out over her legs. He looked a little disappointed and she smiled kindly at him. “You’ve made your point. I was being silly. We should return to the party.”

“Sometimes I wish you were unhinged a bit more often,” he told her, “and for a bit longer each time.”

“I know,” she said. “Do a few laps around the room and think about Edward to cool yourself off. You have people to entertain out there.” Roy made a disgusted face at her but did as he was told. When he’d gone for his third walk around the desk he switched the lamp off and returned to his wife’s side.

“Edward always works,” he mumbled to the dark. He opened the door to the hall and Riza made lazy circles at the small of his back as they were greeted by guards and bowing, appreciative wandering guests. 


End file.
